The Pure

want another drink?’
    Uzi nodded and returned to his thoughts. He knew all about spy syndrome, of course he did. The Office had trained him thoroughly in psychology. He knew that to get someone to do what you wanted, you needed a lever, a hook. You had to identify their weak point, be it sex, money, the desire for revenge or the desire to escape. And he knew how to read his own psychology, too. He knew how to listen both to his mind and to his gut, how to cut through the white noise of panic and grip the hard facts. He knew how to keep the Kol in check, how to hold on to his sanity even when hearing voices in his head. But now it was all becoming hazy. Of course, from one point of view, he had never had it so good. He had no financial concerns. He lived rent-free in luxury. He had the sort of car men would kill for, and a lifestyle of leisure and ease. But it was in his head that the storm was brewing. The little bone bowl of his skull contained an entire universe of paranoia. He continuously tried to dispel it with rational thought, but that was as useless as fighting off darkness with a knife.
    ‘What about you? Aren’t you concerned?’ he said as Avner returned with their drinks.
    ‘Concerned about what?’
    ‘You still work for the Office, for fuck’s sake. If they knew you were meeting me – planning what we’re planning – you’d be fucked.’
    ‘Sure, I work for the Office. For the moment. That’s why I can meet you. I know what our operatives are doing, where the eyes and ears are.’ He leaned closer, his breath whisky-hot. ‘And they’re not here.’ He threw his head back and laughed. Then he was talking about something else.
    As Avner came out with strings of words he could barely hear, let alone understand, Uzi scanned the drinkers around them, as surreptitiously as he could, looking for some sign, some giveaway, something to make him kick over the table and swing draw. Nothing; so far, nothing. He drank whisky, thought about the words ‘fire water’. Avner was still talking, his long arms draped across the back of the sofa. Avner, who he had known for so many years, who he had seen mature, fill out, grow a little fat. Compulsively Uzi slid his hand on to the butt of his R9, pretending to be looking for his phone; for the sake of form he took it out, checked for messages, put it back in his pocket.
    ‘You’ve got to start following the news in Israel,’ Avner was saying. For some reason, he was speaking in French. ‘The polls are in favour of the government, but only by half a percentage point. People are getting sick of being held hostage to the settlers. When our story breaks, it will be game over. I have some big contacts in politics . . .’
    ‘Oh you do?’
    ‘I do. And they’re keeping Ram Shalev’s death on the media’s agenda, ready for our entrance to the stage.’ He laughed, coughed, laughed again. ‘One week, no more than that. They promised me. One week and we’ll be out of here. We’ll be whipping up a storm in Israel without even lifting a finger. We’ll be sipping piña coladas somewhere watching a beautiful sunset while peace explodes at home and the Office is shaken by an earthquake.’
    Uzi drank. He needed a cigarette. ‘This plan of yours had better work, or I’m fucked.’
    ‘Just run,’ said Avner. ‘Disappear. You can come with me if you want. Anywhere you want: South America, Thailand, Africa – there’s money to be made in Africa.’
    ‘You know what?’ said Uzi. ‘Maybe I will.’
    He saw Avner laugh, felt his hand on his shoulder, raised his glass for Avner to clink. He remembered the clink of a glass in his hand following the birth of his son at the Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. But it had not been Avner holding the drink up in congratulations that time. It had been his father. He remembered now the way the glass sat dwarfed in his father’s palm, the tips of his fingers like pebbles. He remembered the heat of the alcohol filling his mouth, tracing a line down into his belly, burning in his throat. He remembered the smiles they exchanged. He remembered the words: L’Chaim . To life. Yes, Abba, to life. He remembered looking down at Nehama lying smiling in the bed, Noam feeding at her breast. He remembered his father saying Mazal tov both of you – you have brought into the world a boy, another soldier to defend our people. Yes, he remembered all this. But he could not remember the face of his son.
    ‘What?’ said Uzi. Avner had